


Safety and Protection

by Searece, Snowdream



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Age Play, Alternate Universe, Cuddles, Gen, Kink Meme, M/M, Non-Chronological
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Searece/pseuds/Searece, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowdream/pseuds/Snowdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(fill for the TF kink meme, non-chronological snippets)  G1 AU--Prowl is the source of mental comfort and safety for Jazz, Bumblebee, Mirage, and other Special Operations mechs.  They wouldn't have survived through the war without him.  Lots of cuddles and fluffiness and comfort await, plus age-play.</p><p>	Fill for:  http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/11776.html?thread=13703168<br/>REQ: G1, Prowl/Autobot Spec Ops, past mechpreg, ageplay/infantilisation<br/>TL;DR: Lots and lots of open affection, forehead-kisses, cuddles, baby-talk, props - cuddly toys and the like (and if anyone can get Jazz into fluffy-topped socks, I will squee so loud at the cute) - and clingy, needy mechs being cooed over. Preferably 'Bee as the oldest of the three in the ages they play as? Poor thing gets looked at as the baby of the 'bots at the best of times! Calling Prowl “Mama” while they're playing is a definite Do Want, and I'd love it if there was any kind of feeding kink in there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> Probably not quite what the OP of the request asked for, but these are the things that struck my mind. I don't own TF.

_1_

            Despite everything, Jazz was looking forward to heading back to Iacon’s military base, almost home to him.  Iacon wasn’t quite home, but the atmosphere was good enough that when he closed his optics, he could nearly believe he was back in Polyhex, curled up in mesh blankets while reading a good datapad he had borrowed from the archives, or watching a holovid while munching on energon goodies. 

            Now, however, his beautiful city lay in ruins under Decepticon control.  Not having been able to stand the way the Decepticons ruled Polyhex, Jazz had left for Iacon, first seeking refuge, then seeking to join the Autobot army when the first option failed.  He didn’t know what he would have done had they not let him join because he could not have gone back to Polyhex.  There was nothing left there for him now.  Especially not since… _that_ had happened _._  

            Jazz shivered in the remembrance of the event that scarred him, and turned toward the window of his transport, watching Cybertron's bare landscape fly by.  He leaned his helm against the window, trying in vain to pass the time without reliving the events of a life long gone.  He would never get that back.  He would never get his perfect life back, never be able to again see the little crystal garden that he had kept carefully maintained for vorns upon vorns.  That, not his friends or his career, had been his pride and joy. 

            When he sighed out of his vents condensation clouded the window, causing him to growl in irritation him as the view was obscured.  Still, Jazz left the fog where it was as he closed his optics, gently humming a few lines from an old melody.  Before long, due to exhaustion, he left to the sweet recesses of recharge, fellow Ops mechs guarding him while he recharged.  Slowly he curled up in his seat, and without realizing it, his intakes clicked against each other as they caught on themselves. 

            One of the Ops mechs snickered quietly, murmuring, “Aww, isn’t Jazz just so cute like that?” 

            "He is."  A few others quietly agreed, having to restrain their laughter.

            “He’s a good leader,” whispered another. 

            “The best ever, seems like.”  They all agreed with that statement: Jazz was fair with the way he gave out missions, always pushed them to do their absolute best, and only gave punishment where needed, not being unnecessarily cruel. 

            “Most definitely, but he’s not that cute.  He has a poisoned energon dagger clutched in his hands, if you’d care to look.”  There was an audible optic-roll in that sentence. 

            “Oooh, that just makes him handsome!”  commented a normally-silent Ops mech quietly, earning muffled laughter for his comment. 

            “Now, now, all of you should be quiet; Jazz needs his rest,” the voice of the pilot murmured across their shared commlink. 

            They obediently quieted, agreeing with the pilot’s statement, keeping vigil over their leader until the time came to disembark and head back into their “home” in Iacon.


	2. First Meeting: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl and Jazz's odd first meeting, in which Prowl's cordial attitude sets up the basis of their friendship. This is set sometime after Chapter One, after Jazz and his Ops mechs get back to Iacon.

_2_

            Prowl immediately plastered himself against the wall as masses of mechs swarmed into the hallway, nearly crushing him in the process, making him curious and slightly displeased as to why and what from they were running.  They were warriors now, had been since the war began some vorns ago, so what were they running from?

             After the horde of mechs had passed, Prowl slowly eased himself away from the wall, careful to make certain that he really _wasn’t_ going to get run over, and padded to the room they had all stormed out of.  He sighed, seeing in the room only one mech left, whose helm and hands seemed to be clinging to the table he was near as if it was a lifeline.  Lightly treading just a bit closer to the mech, he saw that the Polyhexian’s shoulders were shaking and heard tiny whistle-like noises escape the mech.  He blinked as he realized the mech was laughing.

             Prowl made a sort of gravelly noise in his vocal processor, gaining the mech’s attention as the Praxian asked what had happened, and would this mech kindly mind telling him, please?

             To which the Polyhexian said with a cheeky smile that it was an impolite gesture to ask a question without introducing oneself first—he was Jazz, by the way—so would the handsome Praxian please mind giving a name to be addressed with?

             Embarrassed by the complement, Prowl straightway responded by giving his name to the incredibly charming Polyhexian called Jazz, offering a “Hello, nice to meet you!” ping to the mech…

             …to which Jazz responded with a delighted grin and what equated to a “Have we met before?  It seems so!” ping, along with a word about how nice he could already tell Prowl was compared to some of the other Autobots.

             Once near enough, Prowl settled himself down near Jazz, tilting his head and fluttering his doorwings at the pleasantly flickering, teasing EM field of the other mech.

             “So to what do I owe the pleasure of having such a gorgeous smile directed at me?”

             Prowl’s optics widened at what he had just asked:  it had slipped out of his mouth by complete accident.  Usually he was never that forward.  He received a soft, even more gorgeous smile in return for the question.

             “For bein’ such good company, of course!  And those wings don’t hurt a bit,” Jazz hummed, engine revving, “I wouldn’t mind taking _you_ to my berth for a night or two.  Maybe even get to know ya, perhaps?”

             Plating fluffing in embarrassment, Prowl attempted a graceful acceptance of the mech’s offer, not quite certain if he could make it sound sincere enough without being too eager, “I do not currently know much about the location of the base.  Could you show me around if you would not mind?”

             The Praxian was positively certain that the Polyhexian’s grin was purely predatory for the briefest of moments as the other mech nearly growled, a twinkle of mirth lighting his visor, “Oh, I wouldn’t mind _at all_.”

            (Nothing but talking would happen, however, in Jazz's room because of a certain comment made by Prowl.)


	3. Cuddles 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three of Jazz's minibots find a peculiar, startling sight in a common room: their commander cuddling with a white Praxian!  
> (Set quite a bit after ch. 1&2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the prompt requires Prowl to have the trust of Jazz and Jazz's branch of mechs, there's nothing that needs to be warned of (spoiler or otherwise). Also, takes place quite a while after their first meeting, and the reason this chapter is titled "Cuddles 1" is because there will very likely be more cuddles later.

_3_  

            Brawn, Windcharger, and Bumblebee were greeted by the strangest sight as they walked into the Special Operations mech’s common room:  the Praxian Autobot was cuddling their commander Jazz.  Cuddling!  Jazz, who seemed quite content to squirm in the mech’s arms while being tickled, hardly took any notice of them beyond a quick databurst telling them that the white Praxian could be considered completely harmless to them; apparently, he had no intention of trying to best SpecOps mechs on their own turf since such a choice would be undoubtedly rather suicidal.  A sudden shriek of laughter from Jazz startled the three minibots badly enough for them to get into an aggressive mindset.  When suddenly Jazz was on the floor with a crash and a yelp… 

            …the Ops commander found himself bereft of the rather pleasant weight of his new friend, the remnants of his mirth fading swiftly as he realized that three of his minis had tackled the red-chevroned Praxian.  Rolling onto his side to watch as Brawn growled out threats to the apparent “danger,” Jazz felt the amusement come back as promptly as it had left as he saw Prowl remain calm and composed despite being held down by three fully-trained Ops mechs, each nearly as deadly as Jazz himself in their respective talents.  They either did not believe his databurst about the Praxian or they had not thought before they acted on instinct.

            The second was more likely in the current situation. 

            The Polyhexian’s attention was brought back to the current situation at hand by a few soft words of Prowl’s, spoken in a pause in Brawn’s speech, “Look at Jazz; is he alarmed or content?” 

            And his mechs’ attentions suddenly focused half on him, a lazy, affectionate smile found residence on Jazz’s faceplates, silently telling the others not to worry: he was fine. 

            “Come here and tell me how your mission went,” he murmured, stretching his arms outward to them.  Bumblebee, always trusting in his commander, scrambled over to him with hardly a thought, accepting Jazz’s warm hug with surprising ease.  “The both of you as well, Brawn, Windcharger.  Prowl is safe here; we will not endanger him nor he, us.” 

            At the gentle look they were sent, the remaining two minibots’ faceplates could not be read by their captive, though said captive assumed Jazz’s words had done the trick to ease their minds, judging by the way they let go of him, if a tad slowly.  “Jazz?” Prowl questioned, wondering why he still lacked movement when he tried. 

            “Windcharger, my dear,” chuckled Jazz at his fellow Ops. mech’s protectiveness, “let him go, please.” 

            Gingerly sitting up, Prowl thanked the other commander, watching with gentle optics as Jazz kissed his subordinates with much care, murmuring into their audios what seemed to be soft nothings—or reassurances, though Prowl found that particular detail hard to tell.  The sight of seeing such scarred mechs trusting someone else so deeply humbled him.

            “Commander Jazz, why is he here?” asked Windcharger curiously, not caring that Prowl could hear him. 

            Jazz pondered the question for a few moments before responding, the amusement and seriousness that were warring in his gaze clear despite the visor he wore: 

            “I found trustworthiness in him.”


	4. Play: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz waits for Prowl and Mirage to finish with a board game so he can spend time with Prowl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not too certain when the second part--the part with the actual time together--is coming. Slight warning for mentions of carrier-type mechs (only one at the very end).

_4_

            Jazz blinked at the center of the recreation room, where Prowl was teaching Mirage and a few others how to play an old Praxian game that he couldn't quite recall the name of.

            “It is a simple game,” Prowl was saying, giving him the chance to revel in the mech’s baritone voice, “because the only goal is to capture the opponent’s king while you guard yours.  However, it puts your processor to work.”

            “I see,” murmured Mirage as he looked at the board carefully, “May I set up the board?” 

            Prowl pushed the board and pieces over to the former noble.  Carefully, Mirage set up the board, looking at Prowl every few pieces to make sure that he was placing them correctly. 

            Jazz strolled to the two mechs, sitting beside Mirage, who paused to glance at him.  Jazz quirked a smile before turning his gaze to Prowl, pausing at the strong gaze that rested on him. 

            “I have not seen you lately,” the Praxian accused softly, no real bite in the words. 

            “ ‘Been busy.  Couldn’t find ya,” responded Jazz, visor dimming at the sadness running through him at what he had done, yet the knowledge that he yearned for more made him fearful. 

            Prowl’s doorwings subtly dipped down once in acknowledgement, knowing what the words actually meant and that the Polyhexian needed comfort the comfort he was willing to give. 

            “As soon as I finish this,” he murmured.  With a nod Jazz settled to watch the two play. 

            Mirage turned out to be quite horrible at the game, and an even worse loser at it, but Jazz was nonetheless amused at the end result:  the activation of Mirage’s invisibility cloak and the sound of lightly stomping pedes while Prowl watched, amused at the display of irritation.

            Jazz turned his gaze on Prowl, observing the Praxian stretch his sensory panels with a graceful flutter and stand after a moment of the rare movement.  Taking Prowl’s hand in his own with a tight grip, Jazz led his friend away from the crowd with great patience, growling at anyone who got to close, and feeling as Prowl’s skilled hands rubbed across his shoulders and back.

            “I have you,” Prowl murmured into his audial once they were out of the noisy Rec Room, guiding him to a room—which room, Jazz did not care as long as it was private.

            “I know,” he whispered back, pressing close to the other, not wanting to wait to play with the carrier mech under his watchful gaze, safe in the knowledge he wouldn’t be betrayed this time, not by this mech.


	5. First Meeting:  Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This comes directly after chapter two, "First Meeting: Part 1." I know Jazz's reaction to Prowl doesn't make much sense, but it will in a few chapters, hopefully.

_5_

            A few moments of silence encased them before Jazz’s chirped, “Hey, Prowl, come on... Let me give you a tour of the base.”

             Noticing the hesitation though not commenting on it because he did not want to offend his new guide, Prowl nodded, standing up after Jazz made a sweeping gesture towards the door.  “Thank you.  Where should we start?” he asked, optics sweeping over Jazz, taking in any damage to the frame in front of him.

             “We’re goin’ to start from here—the recreation room, or Rec Room—and make a circular path throughout the base, endin’ right back here.  I’d show you where the SpecOps wing, my wing, of the base is, but we’re paranoid mechs.  That alright with ya, mech?”

             The sub-harmonics in Jazz’s voice that Prowl’s doorwings could detect told him that the mech was nervous, jittery.  What Prowl found odd was Jazz’s sudden accent that he had slipped into.  “Yes, that’s alright.  I’m only curious, but tell me, are you a Polyhexian?  I… am not much acquainted with frame types.”

             “Might want to study up on those, then:  we had nearly every frame type to be found on Cybertron in this base before your arrival.  We finally have a Praxian!  Oh, and yes, you guessed right.  I am Polyhexian.”

             At the dimming of the other mech’s visor and the quiet tones the other mech had started murmuring in, Prowl pursed his lips together in thought, fingers coming up to rub at his own cheek in thought.  “I am sorry I upset you,” he finally said after a few moments, voice quiet, “I did not mean to.”

             “What?  Upset—oh, Prowl, you didn’t upset me; I just get, um… touchy whenever someone mentions Polyhex.  It’s no big deal, ‘kay?”  Jazz knew he sounded a bit desperate for this mech to believe him, but he couldn’t help it (even if the odd pitch his voice had gone to gave away the lie for those who knew him).

             “If you get touchy about it, then it is apparently a big deal for you.”

             _‘He saw right through me!’_ Jazz thought, almost dizzy at the speed with which the Praxian replied, unknowing that the first seeds of adoration and trust for Prowl were planted at that moment.  He decided to bluntly drop the subject before he had any more losses, “I see; well, we’ve reached the cannon-fodder’s quarter’s section of the base, which is likely where you’ll be staying until or unless you’ve been told otherwise.”

             “Isn’t it a bit rude to call the soldiers that?”

             At the twinkle of mirth in Prowl’s optics and the slight flutter of his doorwings, Jazz’s plating fluffed outward in his embarrassment, EM field flushing with his emotions.  He stuttered over his words a bit, vaguely happy that nobody else was near—or at least in the same corridor as them, considering that he was bumbling over his words like a fool.

             “Yes, Jazz?” asked Prowl innocently, batting his optics slightly as he shifted, knowing that Jazz couldn’t really understand wing-talk.

             Jazz gaped in astonishment, having only three words that he didn’t really mean for Prowl (well, four if the contraction counted as two in and of itself).  In all actuality, he was amused.

             “You’re infuriating me.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after about a year and a half of pure nothing, I post this. I've had this written for over a year now, I think, but I never posted it because I didn't consider it finished when I wrote it. Oh, well. Argh, I really need to get back in the groove of writing for this fic, especially since I've forgotten most of the ideas I had for it. Comments and critique are appreciated.

            Half-asleep, Jazz trembled in exhaustion as he crawled onto his temporary berth, not caring that he woke up a certain Praxian in the process, but Prowl didn’t really care, either, that he was woken up from a sound recharge once he saw the coolant tracks on Jazz’s face.

            Jazz gave off the air of being weary of living, something that was unusual for a mech who was usually so vibrant. Evidently, Prowl was immediately concerned about Jazz, curling his arms around the mech as the sound of sobbing grew audible to him.

            Jazz felt Prowl rocking him gently, taking care to whisper sweet words of comfort into the Polyhexian’s sensitive audios. After a few minutes of this treatment, Prowl asked, “What happened, my dear, if you care to tell me?”

            For quite a while, the only sound heard in the small quarters was the sound of sobbing with Prowl murmuring into the mech’s audio.

            “I’m sorry, Prowl, but it’s just…” Jazz hesitated, hiccupping as he wiped his optics, which the visor still covered. He wailed, “We lost him; he’s gone!”

            “Who, Jazz?” the Praxian asked softly, kindness in his tone.

            Jazz continued as if he hadn’t heard. “Th—the ‘Cons took him, Prowl! I—I had to watch from the vents as they tortured him, and as he screamed, I felt so helpless. Soundwave was there, but I didn’t know; I would’ve never sent Swift’ on that mission if I had known. Would’a done it myself, then.”

            As Jazz paused, Prowl took the opportunity to say his piece as he soothingly rubbed Jazz’s back, “Oh, sweetie, you didn’t know that Soundwave was there; of course you would not have sent your best pupil there otherwise. Did Swiftbeat need to activate his kill code?”

            Laughing weakly, Jazz said, nuzzling his forehelm into Prowl’s chest, growing affectionate in his need, “Spot on the mark. He was gone before they realized it.”

            Stilling at the tone the SpecOps mech’s voice had gone to, face tightening in sorrow, Prowl sat up, Jazz following the movement. Softly he murmured, “Would you like for me to call in Mirage or Bumblebee here so we can all play together?”

            “No thanks; I just want you for tonight, Mama,” Jazz cooed softly, demeanor changing as his emotions flared wildly inside him, needing the comfort that Prowl provided.

            Prowl tried so hard not to fuss about Jazz as the mech asked for a lullaby, clinging to him.

            He pulled the smaller mech against him, gently massaging Jazz’s sides and back with his fingers while he decided on what to sing. He decided on a soft-toned piece from a time of peace… when Praxus was prosperous and not flatter than a datapad.

            The song spoke of hidden treasure of the greatest kind, better than all the riches any world could give. The song spoke of a mech giving guidance to find the treasure, warning of the consequences of wrong-doing. Meanwhile, Prowl was just relieved that it relaxed Jazz and put them both in a much better mood.

            Though Jazz was still whimpering when Prowl had finished singing, they felt calmer than they had been in a long while.

            “Still want to play?” Prowl asked, honestly not knowing the answer.

            Jazz nuzzled Prowl. “Energon games, please?”

            Prowl mulled the thought around in his processor for a few moments, before saying, “Would you mind plain gelled cubes?”

            Jazz practically lit up like a sparkling getting a new toy, and Prowl’s spark purely _ached_ in remembered pain at the comparison.

            At seeing the pained expression on his Praxian’s face, the Ops mech flinched, wilting, his voice soft as he susurrated, “We don’t have to if you don’t want to, you know! Please, don’t, not if you’re hurting over what happened!”

            “Oh, Jazz, my dear, I’ll always be aching over my loss, and the most you can do to help—”

            The Polyhexian nestled himself into Prowl’s desperate embrace, completing the sentence even as he shook his head, “—is to let you get distracted, I know. But Prowl, it hurts to see you in pain; I don’t like it.”

            Prowl gave a weak chuckle. “It hurts to be in pain, too, you know.”

            Prowl smoothly licked Jazz’s forehelm in a Polyhexian kiss. The smaller mech smiled and shrieked when Prowl’s glossa caressed his audio horns. Biting his lip, Jazz squirmed once Prowl started tickling his sides and effortlessly following his movements.

            “Energon games later, sweetling?” teasingly asked Prowl to the giggling mech.

            Jazz weakly nodded to his caretaker, legs kicking out as he squealed. He rolled out from under Prowl—when had he gotten there?—and darted away in laughter. Prowl pounced toward the other black and white, optics playful. They chased each other throughout the Ops Wing of the base, earning smiles and vaguely envious looks alike from those who saw them.


	7. Fic Needs New Writer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry to say this, but I'm putting this story up for adoption. I feel I am no longer capable of writing it as the request would like. If you are interested in adopting this fic, please comment below. This chapter contains everything left that I had written for the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 6/15/2016: Snowdream has contacted me about this story and wishes to see if she can "do anything" with it. I'm adding her as an author, but if anyone else desires to try their hand at the story after any chapters are edited, I will have an unedited copy of the story safely stored elsewhere for your perusal (as a draft on my email just in case I forget where I put it). Simply contact me.

**Here is the idea I had for chapter 7.** "First Meeting: Part 3, in which we find out about the special calming effect of a Praxian’s field on stressed or overexcited mecha."

**Here's what I had for chapter 8:**

(“Come on, Jazz, you know you want to!” Prowl exclaimed, shaking the… things in his hand at Jazz, smiling at the frowning mech.

“What are those, Prowl?”

“They’re socks, Jazz, fluffy-topped socks. Why, can’t you tell?”

No, Jazz wasn’t creeped out at the site of humongous socks in Prowl’s hand, no sir-ee! His spine wasn’t crawling away from him at the idea of putting those things on his pedes, either. It wasn’t; really, it wasn’t. Well, maybe just a little, teeny, tiny, itty-bitty amount. He backed up slightly at the grin growing on Prowl’s face.

“Aw, be a mech, Jazz,” someone goaded from nearby, causing him to growl.

“Yeah, accept your defeat with dignity!” someone else giggled.

If he ever found out who said those things… He let out a sharp squeal as Prowl leapt at him, turning in a desperate attempt to evade the rather determined, giggling Praxian.

“Come on, mechs, get him!” yelled Prowl as he chased Jazz, dodging the random tables and chairs Jazz tossed at him.)

**And here's what I believe chapter 9 and maybe 10 was supposed to have in it. I actually wrote this around 10/10/2013.**

(Jazz looked up, startled at the door when it slid open with no warning. "What're ya doin' 'ere, 'Raj," he asked curiously, allowing his accent to deepen in his concern, "With no warnin', Ah mean?"

At the shake of Mirage's helm and the pained expression that followed, Jazz sat up, untangling himself from the tired Prowl, who cracked open an optic in order to check on what was happening. Sitting up, alarmed at the sight of Mirage--one of his "charges"--the Praxian beckoned the Special Ops. mech closer to him once again.

"What is wrong, sweetie?" asked Prowl after a few minutes of holding the two mechs against him, but not really expecting an answer. Mirage looked at him tearfully, shaking his head as both Jazz and Prowl rubbed his back.

"I'm sorry," the mech sobbed, burying his face once more in Prowl's chest.

Prowl glanced at Jazz, face concerned as he spoke, "Jazz, be a dear and fetch us some energon, will you?"

"O' course, anything ta help," responded the small mech softly as he slid off the berth and out of the room.

Prowl turned his attention back to Mirage, asking, "Maybe now you will tell me what is wrong? Your brother can't hear anymore."

"A bad recharge flux scared me!" answered the terrified mech, clicking like a sparkling would.

"Oh, is that all?" asked Prowl teasingly, nuzzling Mirage. "You know that those silly night terrors can't harm you. And if they ever try, I promise that I'll be here for you."

"Always and forever?" asked the fragile mech.

"Always and forever, my little desert." reassured Prowl, "now let's wait for Jazz. I have something to say to the both of you." He gently ran his hands against the other's back while they waited for Jazz to return with the energon--and likely Bumblebee, too, if the minibot hadn't already been called.

\--

Once returning to his quarters, Jazz breathed a sigh of relief at seeing his spy still curled inside Prowl's arms. Since the experienced tactician's internals weren't spewed all over the floor, he assumed that Mirage was either recharging or trying to. Slowly so as to not startle anyone else, purposefully letting his pedefalls have sound in the quiet quarters, Jazz curled himself on the berth beside Prowl as he deposited the energon near the carrier mech.

"Thank you, Jazz," smiled Prowl gently as he reached to pet Jazz's helm.

"You're welcome, Mama. How's 'e doing?" the saboteur was understandably concerned about the upset mech.

"He's recharging now, thank Primus. He needs it. But..." Prowl's voice lowered, "Jazz, his missions are really taking their toll on him." He felt Jazz slip out of the playful mood.

Jazz shook his head in dismay, sighing, "I don't have a response for that other than that we're all being damaged by this war, Prowl, even you."

"I know, Jazz, and I think that perhaps you and your kind are hurt more than anyone else." The smallest mech in the room sighed again, optics downcast as he smiled bitterly. "Yeah, at least frontliners don't have to torture mechs in the worst ways to get information. Prowl, I've grown used to it--started to enjoy it, even--but at my core I still hate it. I can feel myself slipping away in here-" Jazz tapped his helm, "-and I desperately need you to anchor me."

"I'm doing my best, Jazz, but I am hurting too. You realize this, yes?"

Stiffening, Jazz answered, "Yeah, I know, but.. Hey, I can't be an anchor, but I'll be as constant as I can in your life!"

"I wish I could promise I'd only ever ask that much of you."

"My only hope is that I'll be able to give you what you need when the time comes. Don't you forget about the rest of us now, we'll help you however we can!"

Prowl gave a slight smile as he gently laid down with Mirage inside of the circle of his arms. "You and your team would just remind me anyway."

"Slaggin' straight," the Ops. Commander grunted as he possessively tucked himself against two of his friends. "What else'd you expect?"

Prowl chuckled, mood successfully lifted. "I'm not quite certain, Jazz, but thank you."

Jazz's response was a tired "You're welcome."

\--

The soft cadence of three familiar pairs of systems cycling softly in recharge was what awakened Mirage the next morning, much to his displeasure because he had been having a nicely uninterrupted recharge. What had awakened him, anyway?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After typing up that last segment, I realize again why I have stopped liking writing this fic. Anyway, comment if you'd like to adopt the fic, or even just pitch in an idea. 
> 
> If you would like to adopt this story, I request that you have at least one of your own stories posted, though not necessarily finished.


End file.
